


i'll earn your trust

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Confessions, Frottage, M/M, Sensuality, Shotgunning, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 20:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Thrown five years into the future, Dean spends his first night sleeping outside of Castiel's cabin, until the morning when Castiel asks for a favor only Dean can fulfill.





	i'll earn your trust

The future is just as bleak as Dean always feared.

Most of his life had been spent living day to day, a long string of wondering where his next meal would come from or what motel on the road wouldn’t bleed his wallet dry. Only a few times when John would leave both him and Sam alone for weeks on end, did he ever mull over what the future might hold, what would happen if things went south. Sam plotted it out with him once before he left for Stanford, about electrical grids and diseases running rampant, the rapidly rotting food supply and failing pipelines and drainage systems. None of it sounded like something to look forward to.

So Dean lived as he always did—and now he’s here, sleeping in a rocking chair on the front porch of Castiel’s cabin. But this isn’t Castiel, not anymore. He goes by Cas, and Cas has spent the last evening smoking his way through as many bowls as he can and moaning to his leisure, all behind a beaded curtain with no door.

Where else was Dean supposed to go, anyway? No one aside from Chuck and his alternate self and a few unnamed faces knew of his existence, and none of them allowed him inside any of their homes, not even with the chill of winter coming, nipping at exposed skin through the night. Cas was the only one to invite him inside, but like hell was he joining in on whatever… _this_ was, the moaning and the squelching and non-stop giggling, all of which makes Dean’s skin crawl.

 _This isn’t Castiel_ , he reminds himself, draping his coat over his front. This is just what he’s become, and this future isn’t Dean’s. Just a twisted nightmare designed to teach him a lesson, designed to force him to submit to creatures he wants nothing to do with. _Just ride it out_ , he thinks, struggling to make himself as comfortable as he can in Cas’ excuse for a chair. _You’ll be home soon._

But morning comes and nothing has changed, save for the sunlight beginning to filter through the trees. The camp is moderately bustling for the hour, strangers milling around the dirt-paved streets and roaming from cabin to cabin, but otherwise, it’s… quiet. Peaceful. The noises inside Cas’ home have ceased, and for a brief second, Dean thinks it’s over. No sound, no inane chatter, nothing but the breeze and a closing door.

The floorboards shake, hard enough to startle Dean into setting his boots back down onto the porch. Rubbing his eyes, he looks to the curtain expecting to see nothing, just as he had for the entire night; instead, Cas greets him, leaning against the door jamb with some of the beads draped over his naked front. Dean follows them to the sagging waistband of his sweatpants, the jut of his hip visible and sheened with sweat and water; he’s toned in a way he shouldn’t have to be, with more scars that he doesn’t deserve. Attractive, yes, but for the wrong reasons.

Swallowing, Dean glances back up to where Cas is toweling his hair dry, blue eyes locked on him all the while. “I told you, you didn’t have to sleep out here,” Cas mentions, looking inside long enough to toss his towel towards some vague destination. “You could’ve had fun with us.”

“No thanks,” Dean mutters, eyes downcast. He shrugs his coat back on over his shoulders, grateful for the momentary warmth. “Sounds like you had it handled.”

Cas shrugs. “More the merrier, or at least that’s what they say. Hey.” Stepping onto the porch, he walks over to stand before Dean, hands on his hips. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Dean looks up. “Oh yeah?”

The interior of Cas’ cabin is lit by a single lamp, considerably less light that the night before. Even with all of the windows open, it still smells like stale pot and incense and sex, the wind doing little to air it out completely. Candles sit on every surface, unlit and covered in melted wax. Statues rest atop dressers and tables. A dreamcatcher hangs from the ceiling fan and above the headboard to Cas’ bed. All hardwood paneling, all wafty with blankets and suspended sheets, everything like Dean pictured a sleep-away camp would look like, only more grotesque.

 _He’s not Castiel_ , Dean thinks, disheartened. Castiel wouldn’t stoop this low, wouldn’t become this… hedonist with a penchant for drugs and alcohol and senseless orgies.

“Sit,” Cas requests, falling back on his mattress and patting the spot beside him. Dean doesn’t move, not immediately, too caught up in watching the gentle rise and fall of Cas’ bare chest with each breath, hair mussed in all directions. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Dean doesn’t answer, too terrified at his own heartbeat.

“Come here,” Cas asks, a little less forcefully, this time teasing; nimble fingers pass over the rumbled bedspread, no doubt filthy from last night, unless the bed is off limits to guests. “You’ve always trusted me, haven’t you? You’re fighting it.”

“You’re not him,” Dean says; still, he toes his shoes off at the door and crosses the carpet, seating himself with less grace than intended. Thankfully, the mattress holds his weight. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because we’re the same person,” Cas suggests; Dean doesn’t believe him. “What, how do you think I should take losing my wings? Suck it up and deal, isn’t that what you’ve always lived by?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d take it to heart. I mean, look at yourself.” Cas does, thoroughly unimpressed. Dean just barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. “How many things are you on right now?”

Cas actually thinks about it, even more frustrating than it should be. “Maybe five,” he says, totally blasé; Dean wants to strangle him. “What were you expecting? It’s the future, and we’re all gonna die anyway. Might as well get something out of it while I’m here.”

Head in his hands, Dean lets out a deep, sagging breath, only to jump when Cas touches his back, hand sliding underneath his shirt. “Dude, stop,” he manages, agitated. Despite tensing, Cas ignores him and keeps doing it, fingers running over the knobs of Dean’s spine. “Are you even listening?”

“I am,” Cas says, “but you’re not really saying anything.”

“Fucking—” Somehow, by the grace of whatever God even exists anymore, Dean keeps from reaching over and breaking Cas’s neck. His stomach turns with the thought, just the notion that he _can_ now—if he wanted, he could press his thumbs into Cas’ windpipe and choke him, or kill him, and Cas would let him. And, he probably wouldn’t feel a thing. “…What happened to you, Cas? This isn’t you, this is…”

“I was never a saint, Dean,” Cas admits. Idly, he smoothes his fingers along Dean’s hip, up the ladder of his ribs, shower-heated skin quelling the chill radiating through him. “I guess, after everything, I just… gave up. Wouldn’t you?” Sitting up, he presses himself to Dean’s side, a hand pressed firm to Dean’s thigh. “The minute you lost your brother, I knew I’d never find you again. The man I’d admired for so long, the man I’d grown to love, was gone, and I thought I’d never see him again.”

Closer now; Dean can see every fleck in his irises, the jaundiced pallor of his face from not enough sun, his once straight nose only somewhat crooked with the scar to bear. “But you’re here.” Cas blinks. “And you’re you. You’re all I ever wanted you to be.”

“What are you on?” Dean asks, a bit winded; soft lips press to his collar, sending warmth sparking across his skin and heat reddening his cheeks. Cas loves him—and this Castiel will admit to it, and has for years.

Does Castiel love him, back home? Is Castiel still waiting?

“I’m sober,” Cas breathes; he smells like mint. “Let me taste it.”

That stops Dean’s heart. “What are you—” he manages, just before Cas shoves him into the bedding, Dean’s head perched at the foot of the mattress. Cas brackets him, legs straddling hips, hands fisting the sheets underneath Dean’s shoulders. “Cas, I’m not—”

“You want this,” Cas says, all the bit sure in himself; shame turns Dean even redder, no matter how hard he looks away. “But I’m not asking for sex. I want to feel your soul, Dean.”

That—sounds better, yes. Better than Cas going down on him when he’s skittish and hyperaware of every move. “How… Why would you wanna do that?” Dean blurts.

Inadvertently, he falls into Cas’ touch, Cas’ palm caressing his cheek, thumb pressed to his lower lip; Dean has half the mind to kiss it. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” Cas whispers, secretive, and honestly, if Dean had to deal with his alternate, dickish self twenty-four hours a day, he’d miss himself too. “I want to feel you. How you were, when we were innocent. Souls are more powerful than anything I have, and I…” He stops, both hands on Dean’s face now, tilting his chin up. “You can’t save me, Dean. You can try, but I’m already lost. Give me this one thing.”

“Cas.” Cautiously, Dean reaches up to palm Cas’ hips, both hands encircling his waist and resting atop the small of his back. Warm, solid, somewhat boney—but it’s more skin than he’s ever seen, and more skin than Castiel will ever allow him to touch. “I don’t…”

“I’ll show you,” Cas soothes, lust in his eyes.

The process is slow and for some reason involves Dean stripping all of his shirts off, but Dean flushes with it regardless, especially when Cas kisses him, all heat and little subtlety. Where he learned to kiss like that, Dean doesn’t want to know, so long as Cas keeps touching him, keeps their bodies pressed close. Cas is hard in his sweatpants, and Dean’s not too far after. Shamelessly, he ruts against the thigh Cas slips between his legs, the friction almost enough to send him over the edge.

“Cas,” Dean moans, breathless, just as Cas kisses him again, both hands cupping his cheeks. “Cas, don’t…” _Don’t stop, don’t let go_ —Dean doesn’t know. Everything suddenly feels too close and too real: the hands creeping along his skin, legs dovetailed with his own, lips sucking marks along sweat-laden skin. At least, if Zachariah throws him back any time soon, he’ll have something to remember this moment by, even if his Castiel never feels the same.

“Open,” Cas orders, and Dean can’t help but open his mouth.

No matter how hard he tries, Dean can’t accurately describe the feeling of a sliver of his soul leaving his body, spilling from between his lips into the scant space between them; Cas breathes it in like air, and Dean swears he can see his eyes grow brighter when he swallows it down.

In the aftermath, Dean blinks, sighing slowly between them. “Is that what you wanted?” he asks, his words swallowed in an equally slow kiss, Cas surrounding him all at once, intoxicating: his musk, the scented candles, the first breeze of a new season—Dean wants to drown in it, drown in this. “Cas, is that…”

“More.” Cas presses closer, eyes wide and fearful, probably for the first time in this hellscape. “More of you, please, Dean—”

It shames him, how much he gets lost in touch; it always has, from one night stands to hands in his hair in truck stop bathrooms. The way Cas pulls him close, tugs their hips together, is the most he’s felt in a long few months, and for a while, he allows himself to feel, to forget the world around them. His straining relationship with Sam and the pressure from the Angels dwindles with each kiss, every inhale Cas takes, like passing puffs of smoke. Essentially, they’re shotgunning Dean’s soul; it shouldn’t be as hilarious as it is.

“Something’s funny,” Cas remarks, just as he pulls down the zipper to Dean’s pants, hurriedly shoving them down his hips until he can free Dean’s cock. Dean goes willingly, flattening to the mattress with Cas’ weight. Cas’ pants slide down easier than his own, and soon, he has both of their thick cocks in hand, sliding wet in his fist. Cas' fingers thread between his own, tightening their grip. “What’s so amusing?”

 _Everything_ , Dean wants to say. _I just got thrown into the future, and my best friend just decided he wants to eat my soul, and I’m letting him because I’ll never get to tell him how I feel._ “You,” Dean moans, slinging an arm around Cas’ shoulders. “Have we ever—?”

“A few times.” Cas nips his throat, and Dean tips his head back, giving him more. “He doesn’t like this, though.”

Cas squeezes their cocks together, hard, and Dean has to bite his lip to keep from coming. “What’s he— _fuck, slow down_ —like?”

“Ah.” Briefly, Cas brushes Dean’s hand away and pins both of them above his head with his own, hanging over the mattress. “He doesn’t like kissing. Barely looks at me. I don’t think he can stand to see my back.”

After that, it’s a mess of teeth and tongue and hips, and together they grind, Dean cussing into Cas’ mouth and ear and the sweaty curve of his neck. Too good—he’s never been held like this, never been loved like this by any human or creature, and the worst part, it’s not real. This is a future he hasn’t created yet, a reality that’s solely dependent on whether or not he submits to Michael or whether Sam says yes. But he can have this—if he can go back and change the rules, he can have Castiel, and Castiel won’t have to lose his wings because of bad decisions and even worse relationships.

Cas’ grip tightens on his hands, almost crushingly so, their cocks wet and leaking between their stomachs. No matter how hard he tries to hold off, Dean is close, riding Cas’ thrusts and pushing back just as roughly, until Cas gasps his name. “This can be us,” Dean wheezes; he hooks his ankles over Cas’, drawing them together, making them whole. “Cas, we can make it right—”

“Don’t ever let me go,” Cas whines, biting along the cord of Dean’s throat. “I can’t lose you to them, I can’t lose you again.”

Dean comes with nothing more than a rough inhale and a final shove, spilling thick between them and painting their chests white. Cas follows not too long afterwards, his breaths shuddering and wrecked just as Dean’s heart is beginning to still and the sweat begins to cool. Neither of them make an attempt to move despite their state of undress and the mess congealing on overheated skin, at least not until Dean hears footsteps in the dirt. Nowhere close, but loud enough to startle him from his stupor and drag him back to reality.

He just had sex—amazingly terrifying sex with the future version of his friend in a desolate wasteland, because he’s lonely and too scared to admit his own feelings. Cas had to do it for him. This unfamiliar, doped up, hedonistic version of Castiel, from a future he never wants to witness.

He feels sick just thinking about it.

It takes a few minutes, but they eventually disentangle themselves, Cas crossing the cabin to grab a washcloth from the basin by the door. He completely foregoes his pants along the way, coming back naked and half-hard, waning with the chill of the air. “When I lost my wings,” he says, straddling Dean again and wiping down the length of his chest in small increments, almost bathing him, “I didn’t lose them metaphorically. You—Dean had to cut them free.”

His stomach lurches. “That could’ve…”

“I had enough Grace left to heal after he sawed them off. I don’t think he ever forgot, though.”

He turns after they’re both cleaned off, exposing the gnarled scars Dean hadn’t paid attention to before; now that he sees them, though, he can’t draw his eyes away. Two gashes sit parallel to Cas’ shoulder blades, the jagged lines stretching halfway down his back and tapering off at the ends. They’re not pretty, not by a long shot, but Dean can’t help but touch, fingers tracing the reddened marks, rigid and tender; if they heal, it’ll be years from now, if Cas survives that long.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, eyes closed against the emotion welling there, threatening to spill over. Cas melts into his embrace, an arm coming up to circle Dean’s head, Dean’s drawn around Cas’ waist. “I’ll make this right,” he mourns, forehead pressed to the top of Cas’ spine. “I won’t let you fall, not like this.”

Cas deflates with a sigh, his stomach shrinking under Dean’s hands. “For you,” he breathes, tilting his head back for another kiss, “I’ll always fall.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Keith Urban song, "Making Memories of Us"
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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